Somehow I am drawn to the language of poetry again. One more time, perhaps, feeling a little cramped by the prose of our lives. Prose may take me back into the battles that rage across our lives, the fierce polarized battles of who is right and what is true. Poetry is the language I need right now. I am looking for wonder, as so many are these days. When I hear the song of wonder singing in the morning, I am turning to poetry.

Last week I offered to my blog followers a poem I had written. I have not written in this language for many years. I’ve been writing prose—my blog, the classes I teach, letters on email, business stuff—always probing toward some new understanding. I used to write poetry when younger. I was a teacher of poetry for many years, teaching both the work of great poets and helping my students learn to write poetry. My students often startled me with the freshness of their language and the depth of their insight. They inspired me to see and say things differently. So I wrote poetry too.

I’ve been reading a lot from the poet Mary Oliver. There are so many of her marvelous poems swirling around these days, surely because of a fine documentary aired last week. One of her poems, “I Worried,” strikes a chord with me right now.  

I want to share this morning a poem I’ve written. It’s not an essay. It’s a poem. There’s a difference. I confess I’ve not written a poem for some thirty years. I used to write them all the time. And I taught lots of poetry. I apologize to some of the poets on my blog list. Some of you even took a few of those classes with me. Bear with me. I’m a bit rusty.